As anyone who's been following the news, trying to buy clothes, or just stopped in at their local Walmart can tell you; America is gaining weight. And not just a little weight, no, America, according to this latest CDC report, is quickly becoming a nation of very, very big people. Another, equally depressing report found that almost 33% of all American adults are overweight, 34% are obese, and 6% are morbidly obese. The numbers don't get any better. In Georgia, for instance, over 27% of the people are obese. That's obese, people, not just overweight, but obese. It's a scary trend, and one that can easily be explained by the so-called typical American lifestyle of too much driving, too little exercise, and a diet that consists mainly of processed foods with high amounts of sugar, fats, and other bad stuff.
But explaining it isn't enough. It's obvious that something needs to be done, especially when you consider that more and more Americans are suffering from weight-related diseases such as diabetes, and that each year I see well-built, healthy students easily put on twenty pounds over the course of one semester, while still continuing to munch on chips, popcorn, and beef jerky during class.
Since it seems as though hell will freeze over before Georgia would make PE mandatory in all of its elementary and secondary schools, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Last week, during the mid-class five minute break, one of my students asked me what a triathlon was. They had read the little "meet your faculty!" bulletin board, and discovered that I had completed four triathlons. In an attempt to lengthen their break, they thought they would take the "get the instructor to talk about their personal life" route, and ask me about them. When I told them a triathlon entailed swimming, biking, and running, pandemonium broke out; "Please tell me you only have to pick one!", "What?! All three those things?", "Only crazy people do that!", "I can barely run at all.", "Dang, I break into a sweat when I walk up the stairs", and so on.
So I surveyed the classroom filled with students munching on snacks, drinking sodas, and diving into the french fries they had picked up before class, and told them that really, they should be running circles around me. I told them I was old, had kids, responsibilities, like a hundred hours per week, and spend more time each day in my car than they spend in this class each week. But they were not to be dissuaded, no, there was no way they could do it. No. Way. Running was hard. No one they knew ever rode their bikes. And swimming? Well, that was just not an option. In short, exercise was nasty.
As you all know, I live to make my students' lives miserable while trying to teach them important life lessons. So upon hearing all of that, I immediately knew what that semester's extra credit activity was going to be. And so I announced, to a class full of perplexed students, "I am going to organize a 5k. Here on campus. And anyone who finishes in under 30 minutes will earn 5% extra credit. It's absolutely ridiculous that you guys are super young and I'm in better shape than you, and so we're going to change that. What's the point of you all becoming super successful media producers and researchers if you're going to die of diabetes at age fifty? I don't want that on my conscience. So we are going to run.You are going to run."
In the spirit of something I'd like to call Cover your Hiney, I also offered an alternative for those who did not want to, or could not run: to complete the online NIH research ethics training.
Even though this NIH training is not what you might call exciting, or stimulating, I half expected all of my students to sign up for the training, but so far, everyone has really taken to the idea of running in the race. My other classes have asked to participate, and one of the sororities on campus has offered to organize the run. It's actually threatening to turn from a fun, impromptu run, into a seriously big event. And I just realized if I want to prevent my little runner's hiney from getting in trouble, I better let the chair and the dean know what I'm up to. Because, you know, there is no way we can hide a hundred students thundering around campus.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
De vrouw van...
In mijn psuedo-wetenschappelijk onderzoek naar de reden waarom ik hier, van alle plaatsen waar ik heb gewoond, toch wel het meest uit de toon val, heb ik vandaag weer een kleine overwinning geboekt.
Het heeft even geduurd, maar volgens mij is een belangrijke variabele (om het even wetenschappelijk te houden) het feit dat ik mijzelf nooit, maar dan ook nooit identificeer als "de vrouw van". Ik was net door wat blogs van vrouwen van militairen aan het heen spitten, en stuk voor stuk hadden ze allemaal titels als "The few, the proud, the wife", "The adventures of a navy wife", "Mr. Flyboy and his missus", en "Diary of an Air Force wife". Zelfs de meer kritische schrijfsters, wiens blogs absoluut niet bestaan uit verhaaltje over hoe enorm geweldig hun man/kinderen/hond/konijn/huis wel niet is, blijven zichzelf identificeren als "de vrouw van". Zo zijn er bijvoorbeeld; "An annoyed army wife", "Just another snarky navy wife", en "Disgruntled diary of a marine bride".
En zo gaat het dus in de werkelijkheid ook. Altijd en overal introduceren deze vrouwen zichzelf door eerst hun mans naam te laten vallen, en dan pas zichzelf voor te stellen. Zelfs al zit je in een voorstelrondje vrouwengroep in de kerk, en beginnen de eerste paar heel moedig met alleen zichzelf voor te stellen, vier vrouwen later klinken de meeste introducties als volgt; "Mijn naam is Amy, en mijn man is Bob, hij zit nu bij de mannen (nerveuze giechel). Hij zit bij de 54th bla-bla-bla squadron waar hij werkt als chief van huppeldepup, en oh ja, hij krijg volgende maand promotie."
Natuurlijk zijn hier allerlei goede redenen voor. Zo is het best wel belangrijk om te weten of je naast de vrouw van de generaal zit, bijvoorbeeld. Of dat er iemand bij zit wiens echtgenoot voor een andere tak van het leger werkt (voordat je al je grapjes over de landmacht uit de kast trekt).Uiteindelijk wil niemand dat haar man op het matje geroepen wordt omdat zijn echtgenoot de "vrouw van" beledigd heeft (en ja, dat gebeurt, echt. In 2011).
Maar goed, ik doe dat dus nooit, dat vertellen wat manlief allemaal doet. Ik vind dat gewoon niet zo interessant, ik bedoel, het is maar werk. Het feit dat hij een keer op een dag vijfhonderd push ups heeft gedaan (op kantoor nog wel) vind ik dan weer veel interessanter. Maar ik dwaal af. Ik vergeet dus bij dat soort voorstelrondjes dan ook regelmatig dat ik toch echt "Mrs" ben, en stel mezelf doodleuk met mijn meisjesnaam voor. En voordat iedereen nu roept, "Ja maar jij vertelt vast wat voor een werk je doet", nee, dat doe ik dus ook niet. Mijn werk is leuk hoor, daar niet van, maar het is nou ook weer niet zo leuk dat ik daar buiten mijn werk ook over praat. Thuis is thuis. Ik ben altijd gewoon maar Ju. Die van hardlopen houdt. Zoiets. En soms dan vertel ik ook nog dat, oh ja, ik ben getrouwd.
En dan val je dus buiten de boot. Want hier zijn de meeste vrouwen "de vrouw van..", en sja, ik ben gewoon mezelf.
Lastig hoor.
Het heeft even geduurd, maar volgens mij is een belangrijke variabele (om het even wetenschappelijk te houden) het feit dat ik mijzelf nooit, maar dan ook nooit identificeer als "de vrouw van". Ik was net door wat blogs van vrouwen van militairen aan het heen spitten, en stuk voor stuk hadden ze allemaal titels als "The few, the proud, the wife", "The adventures of a navy wife", "Mr. Flyboy and his missus", en "Diary of an Air Force wife". Zelfs de meer kritische schrijfsters, wiens blogs absoluut niet bestaan uit verhaaltje over hoe enorm geweldig hun man/kinderen/hond/konijn/huis wel niet is, blijven zichzelf identificeren als "de vrouw van". Zo zijn er bijvoorbeeld; "An annoyed army wife", "Just another snarky navy wife", en "Disgruntled diary of a marine bride".
En zo gaat het dus in de werkelijkheid ook. Altijd en overal introduceren deze vrouwen zichzelf door eerst hun mans naam te laten vallen, en dan pas zichzelf voor te stellen. Zelfs al zit je in een voorstelrondje vrouwengroep in de kerk, en beginnen de eerste paar heel moedig met alleen zichzelf voor te stellen, vier vrouwen later klinken de meeste introducties als volgt; "Mijn naam is Amy, en mijn man is Bob, hij zit nu bij de mannen (nerveuze giechel). Hij zit bij de 54th bla-bla-bla squadron waar hij werkt als chief van huppeldepup, en oh ja, hij krijg volgende maand promotie."
Natuurlijk zijn hier allerlei goede redenen voor. Zo is het best wel belangrijk om te weten of je naast de vrouw van de generaal zit, bijvoorbeeld. Of dat er iemand bij zit wiens echtgenoot voor een andere tak van het leger werkt (voordat je al je grapjes over de landmacht uit de kast trekt).Uiteindelijk wil niemand dat haar man op het matje geroepen wordt omdat zijn echtgenoot de "vrouw van" beledigd heeft (en ja, dat gebeurt, echt. In 2011).
Maar goed, ik doe dat dus nooit, dat vertellen wat manlief allemaal doet. Ik vind dat gewoon niet zo interessant, ik bedoel, het is maar werk. Het feit dat hij een keer op een dag vijfhonderd push ups heeft gedaan (op kantoor nog wel) vind ik dan weer veel interessanter. Maar ik dwaal af. Ik vergeet dus bij dat soort voorstelrondjes dan ook regelmatig dat ik toch echt "Mrs" ben, en stel mezelf doodleuk met mijn meisjesnaam voor. En voordat iedereen nu roept, "Ja maar jij vertelt vast wat voor een werk je doet", nee, dat doe ik dus ook niet. Mijn werk is leuk hoor, daar niet van, maar het is nou ook weer niet zo leuk dat ik daar buiten mijn werk ook over praat. Thuis is thuis. Ik ben altijd gewoon maar Ju. Die van hardlopen houdt. Zoiets. En soms dan vertel ik ook nog dat, oh ja, ik ben getrouwd.
En dan val je dus buiten de boot. Want hier zijn de meeste vrouwen "de vrouw van..", en sja, ik ben gewoon mezelf.
Lastig hoor.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Motivate Schmotivate
We're three weeks into the semester, and already my students are, like, totally done with the whole college thing. Morning classes suck, afternoon classes make you sleepy, and why on earth do we have a paper due in three weeks? Oh, and let's not forget that train is a totally acceptable excuse to show up to class late, and rolling at your eyes at any new assignment is just another way of expressing that that independent thinking your instructor is always prattling on about.
We are only in week four people. Week four. And already teaching has become like pulling teeth. Actually, if only it were like pulling teeth, then none of us would feel any pain, and it would all be over really quickly.
Students who don't care are possibly the toughest crowd to teach. There is no response to questions, they don't listen and then ask you to re-explain something your cocker spaniel could understand ("Read chapter four for the next class, and then you will also need to start on...", "Wait, you mean we have to read chapter four?"), and start packing up their stuff ten minutes before the end of class. I've tried my usual tricks to motivate them; joke, use strange examples ("So, an example of a hypothesis would be: Men always end up cheating"), bring in audiovisual material ("Let's analyze this banned commercial of Mr. T shooting snickers at an effeminate white man walking down the street to get a clearer grasp of this specific stereotype"), and all I get is crickets, or in the latter case, "Well, it was just really funny.". Funny. Three years of expensive college education, and all they can come up with is "funny".
Now I've given this some thought, and I think the reason bored and unmotivated students bug me is because in the last ten, fifteen years college campuses have wholeheartedly embraced the "engaged learning" concept. Engaged learning, or whatever pretty name you want to give it, was a backlash against the old professor droning on in front of a dusty chalkboard, without any attention for his or her students. Engaged learning involves "dynamic student-instructor interaction!" (read: fielding lots and lots of questions about everything unrelated to the subject matter), "Rendering material applicable and concrete!" (read: lots of examples, or if you're feeling a bit snappy, dumbing it down so everyone gets it), "Multiple learning opportunities" (read: lots of assignments to make sure even the laziest students have a chance to pass), and "The use of advanced educational technologies" (read: you have to use powerpoint/smartboard/blackboard/moodle/wiki if you ever want to get promoted).
Don't get me wrong, as someone who spent hundreds of hours in large lecture halls listening to mumbling professors and trying to decipher their cryptic notes on the decades old chalkboard, I appreciate engaged learning. I'm convinced it's a better learning experience for the student, as well as the instructor. After all, if given the choice between droning on and using examples to get students to understand the material, I prefer the latter. But it all falls apart if the students don't cooperate. Which they haven't. They've been bored, resistant, sullen, and unwilling.
So, I think it's time for one of my scary speeches. One of those speeches where I remind them that everything they do now prepares them for that future they can't wait to start. And that the less they do now, the more that future will suck. I think I may even tell them that if they think this class is boring, they should wait until their first entry-level job, the one they will need to take because they couldn't be bothered to maintain a 3.0 GPA in college. Yes, I think it's time to use the fear tactic. After all, I did not get my PhD in motivational studies.
We are only in week four people. Week four. And already teaching has become like pulling teeth. Actually, if only it were like pulling teeth, then none of us would feel any pain, and it would all be over really quickly.
Students who don't care are possibly the toughest crowd to teach. There is no response to questions, they don't listen and then ask you to re-explain something your cocker spaniel could understand ("Read chapter four for the next class, and then you will also need to start on...", "Wait, you mean we have to read chapter four?"), and start packing up their stuff ten minutes before the end of class. I've tried my usual tricks to motivate them; joke, use strange examples ("So, an example of a hypothesis would be: Men always end up cheating"), bring in audiovisual material ("Let's analyze this banned commercial of Mr. T shooting snickers at an effeminate white man walking down the street to get a clearer grasp of this specific stereotype"), and all I get is crickets, or in the latter case, "Well, it was just really funny.". Funny. Three years of expensive college education, and all they can come up with is "funny".
Now I've given this some thought, and I think the reason bored and unmotivated students bug me is because in the last ten, fifteen years college campuses have wholeheartedly embraced the "engaged learning" concept. Engaged learning, or whatever pretty name you want to give it, was a backlash against the old professor droning on in front of a dusty chalkboard, without any attention for his or her students. Engaged learning involves "dynamic student-instructor interaction!" (read: fielding lots and lots of questions about everything unrelated to the subject matter), "Rendering material applicable and concrete!" (read: lots of examples, or if you're feeling a bit snappy, dumbing it down so everyone gets it), "Multiple learning opportunities" (read: lots of assignments to make sure even the laziest students have a chance to pass), and "The use of advanced educational technologies" (read: you have to use powerpoint/smartboard/blackboard/moodle/wiki if you ever want to get promoted).
Don't get me wrong, as someone who spent hundreds of hours in large lecture halls listening to mumbling professors and trying to decipher their cryptic notes on the decades old chalkboard, I appreciate engaged learning. I'm convinced it's a better learning experience for the student, as well as the instructor. After all, if given the choice between droning on and using examples to get students to understand the material, I prefer the latter. But it all falls apart if the students don't cooperate. Which they haven't. They've been bored, resistant, sullen, and unwilling.
So, I think it's time for one of my scary speeches. One of those speeches where I remind them that everything they do now prepares them for that future they can't wait to start. And that the less they do now, the more that future will suck. I think I may even tell them that if they think this class is boring, they should wait until their first entry-level job, the one they will need to take because they couldn't be bothered to maintain a 3.0 GPA in college. Yes, I think it's time to use the fear tactic. After all, I did not get my PhD in motivational studies.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The waiting game
Apparently I broke "the code" so badly in my last post, that no one really knew what to say at such a flagrant display of social ineptness. Fortunately for all of my readers, I want to share something with you today that I'm sure a lot of my readers, especially those who have had to deal with the Kafkaesque bureaucracy that is the USCIS, can relate to. And for those of you who are lucky enough to have just said, "the what?", just see this post as a way to experience some nice German schadenfreude.*
Anyway, besides apparently having the tenacity of a terrier, the social graces of a hippopotamus, I also fall a little short in the patience department. And although I have no problem explaining the same thing over and over and over again to a confused student, if you make me wait for something, I will be crawling up on the ceiling in no time. Especially if it's something that I can in no way control or foresee how long it might take. So if a plane is delayed by fifteen minutes, I'm fine. If my dentist tells me it will be another ten minutes, I'm cool too. As long as I know how long I have to wait, I am patience personified. But whenever I don't know how long something will take, I become an edgy bundle of nerves. And not just that, but my mind will, fairly quickly, have spun out an intricate tale of why something is taking this long, then figured out that all of that has obviously happened to me, a thought which will always end in the conclusion that I will, from that moment on, cease to know happiness ever again.
Oy, indeed.
Right now, my beef is with the US Postal Service. Don't get me wrong, I really like our mail carriers, and the ladies at our post office are always really nice, but why does mail take so long in this country? Doesn't the postal service realize that some of us are waiting on really important things?
For instance, I'm still waiting on a package with Christmas presents from my brother, which obviously has gotten lost. Forever. Obviously. (and because this proves the unreliability of parcel service, you do realize that my brother will never ever sent a package again. Ever. Obviously.)
And then there is the case of the W2 that might be missing. Or not. I received an email from the HR department that they mailed my W2 this past Saturday, and of course it still hasn't arrived. Now although my brain is currently somewhat calmed down by the thought that Monday was a holiday, I know it won't be long before it's decided that my W2 didn't just get lost, oh no, it was stolen by a bunch of thieves who will now use my identity to open up credit cards, acquire driver's licenses, and commit crimes, thus ruining my life forever.
But the case that takes the cake is my N400. As you may remember, I made a promise last December to mail that thing. Soon-ish at least. And I did. May the record show that I mailed it January 10 (which, as far as I'm concerned is a record for my little procrastinator's soul). And although I'm pretending to be all cool and relaxed about it, you all know I'm secretly on pins and needles. Especially since I haven't received the little green return receipt yet. Now the USPS website tells me the package was delivered on the 14th, which sets my mind off into an endless calculation, "Well, that was a week ago today. If they sent the stub back on Friday, then it should have been here by now. Really. But Monday was a holiday, so does that mean it didn't get sent until Tuesday? So then when should it get here?".
Then of course there is the fact that the check made out to the USCIS hasn't been cashed either. For those of you (blissfully) unaware of this; there's a $680 fee attached to applying for citizenship. So I wrote the check, had a minor aneurysm, and then included it in my package. Most other people's checks get cashed within a week. Mine hasn't, and you have no idea what this does with my already frazzled mind. Did they lose it? Is my package sitting on the wrong pile? Did it even make it to the right place?
It goes on and on. Because there's also the "O.M.G. I don't know when they will schedule my fingerprints/interview, so should I book any vacations right now? Or should I wait until I know those dates? But what if all the good tickets are gone then?", not to mention the worries about lost notices of action and other important paperwork sent through the mail. It really does never end. It's seriously a miracle I remember how to get dressed in the morning with all that raging through my head.
So as far as I'm concerned, the waiting game is not a game at all. It's serious, painful, and really messes with my mind. Now excuse me while I go outside and set up a tent next to our mailbox.
* For those of you not familiar with it, please check out this song from Avenue Q. If you're still not quite comfortable with the term "schadenfreude", this song will clear it right up for (listener discretion advised).
Anyway, besides apparently having the tenacity of a terrier, the social graces of a hippopotamus, I also fall a little short in the patience department. And although I have no problem explaining the same thing over and over and over again to a confused student, if you make me wait for something, I will be crawling up on the ceiling in no time. Especially if it's something that I can in no way control or foresee how long it might take. So if a plane is delayed by fifteen minutes, I'm fine. If my dentist tells me it will be another ten minutes, I'm cool too. As long as I know how long I have to wait, I am patience personified. But whenever I don't know how long something will take, I become an edgy bundle of nerves. And not just that, but my mind will, fairly quickly, have spun out an intricate tale of why something is taking this long, then figured out that all of that has obviously happened to me, a thought which will always end in the conclusion that I will, from that moment on, cease to know happiness ever again.
Oy, indeed.
Right now, my beef is with the US Postal Service. Don't get me wrong, I really like our mail carriers, and the ladies at our post office are always really nice, but why does mail take so long in this country? Doesn't the postal service realize that some of us are waiting on really important things?
For instance, I'm still waiting on a package with Christmas presents from my brother, which obviously has gotten lost. Forever. Obviously. (and because this proves the unreliability of parcel service, you do realize that my brother will never ever sent a package again. Ever. Obviously.)
And then there is the case of the W2 that might be missing. Or not. I received an email from the HR department that they mailed my W2 this past Saturday, and of course it still hasn't arrived. Now although my brain is currently somewhat calmed down by the thought that Monday was a holiday, I know it won't be long before it's decided that my W2 didn't just get lost, oh no, it was stolen by a bunch of thieves who will now use my identity to open up credit cards, acquire driver's licenses, and commit crimes, thus ruining my life forever.
But the case that takes the cake is my N400. As you may remember, I made a promise last December to mail that thing. Soon-ish at least. And I did. May the record show that I mailed it January 10 (which, as far as I'm concerned is a record for my little procrastinator's soul). And although I'm pretending to be all cool and relaxed about it, you all know I'm secretly on pins and needles. Especially since I haven't received the little green return receipt yet. Now the USPS website tells me the package was delivered on the 14th, which sets my mind off into an endless calculation, "Well, that was a week ago today. If they sent the stub back on Friday, then it should have been here by now. Really. But Monday was a holiday, so does that mean it didn't get sent until Tuesday? So then when should it get here?".
Then of course there is the fact that the check made out to the USCIS hasn't been cashed either. For those of you (blissfully) unaware of this; there's a $680 fee attached to applying for citizenship. So I wrote the check, had a minor aneurysm, and then included it in my package. Most other people's checks get cashed within a week. Mine hasn't, and you have no idea what this does with my already frazzled mind. Did they lose it? Is my package sitting on the wrong pile? Did it even make it to the right place?
It goes on and on. Because there's also the "O.M.G. I don't know when they will schedule my fingerprints/interview, so should I book any vacations right now? Or should I wait until I know those dates? But what if all the good tickets are gone then?", not to mention the worries about lost notices of action and other important paperwork sent through the mail. It really does never end. It's seriously a miracle I remember how to get dressed in the morning with all that raging through my head.
So as far as I'm concerned, the waiting game is not a game at all. It's serious, painful, and really messes with my mind. Now excuse me while I go outside and set up a tent next to our mailbox.
* For those of you not familiar with it, please check out this song from Avenue Q. If you're still not quite comfortable with the term "schadenfreude", this song will clear it right up for (listener discretion advised).
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The southern belle
If you've ever, unlike yours truly, who never quite made it past the burning of Atlanta, managed to sit through all three hours of "Gone with the wind", you will know exactly what is meant by a southern belle. It's a submissive, at times secretly strong-willed, but always well-behaved lady. Yes, lady. Not woman, lady. Women is far too common a term to use for southern belles. True southern belles are ladies who glow instead of perspire, who know how to color coordinate everything down to the bathroom sink, and who are never in pain, but possibly just a little uncomfortable.
Just in case you wondered, I am not even close to becoming a southern belle. Although I've become an expert at hiding critiques inside compliments, and making every statement sound like a question, I still fail to meet several main criteria:
1. I don't bake or cook, and even worse, I let my husband do most of the food preparation;
2. I work, and not only that, but I have an actual career that I, oh my stars, like;
3. I don't sew, quilt, or do any form of needlepoint, and ask my husband to sew on buttons for me;
4. I am currently not enrolled in a bible study class, which really just says it all, and;
5. I don't have any kids, and what's worse, I can't have any either, which means there is no point talking to me about baby gear, toddler issues, or pre-school selection procedures. And no, stepkids don't count, which is mainly because in the world of the southern belle there is no such thing as divorce. And when it does happen, said woman will move away, thus sparing herself and her friends the embarrassment of dealing with a divorcee, or even worse, a second marriage.
This is of course neglecting several other of my characteristics, such as my painful honesty, my tendency towards liberal political opinions, and my refusal to wear make up 24/7/365.
In short, I have not yet been embraced by the tight knit circle of southern belles that make up my home town. And usually, I'm really OK with that. In fact, half the time I don't even notice I'm missing something, simply because I'm obtuse. And busy. Or both.
Anyway, every once in a while, something will happen that will make (painfully) aware of the fact that no, I have not blended into this southern culture, and yes, it really is that bad. And this past Monday was one of those moments. On Monday, I had been invited to an afternoon of games at a friend's house (and by the way, help me out here - is that a southern thing? To be invited to an afternoon of games when you're an adult? You see, I'm so confused about what's what that I really have no idea if my non-southern readers do things like that too). Somehow, the conversation shifted to my commute, and if I didn't get tired of it. As I was around friends, I had forgotten to turn on my "southern filter", and responded, "Yes, it's gotten really old. I can't wait until we move and I can get away from this horrible town."
Most of my non-southern-belle friends nodded in understanding, but an older lady sitting next to me responded, "What? You don't like it here?"
Really people, if three years and six months in the south should have taught me something, it should have been that when someone questions your opinion, they are really offended, and you need to tone it down. Apparently, that hasn't clicked with me yet, because I said, "Oh no, I can't stand it here."
The older lady frowned and said, "Well, I think that's being very ungrateful. You should be happy to be able to be wherever your husband is living."
Yes, because obviously my personal happiness is entirely tied to my husband. Obviously. And if it's not, that means I must not truly love my husband, which, in turn, makes me a very, very bad wife.And that's probably why God won't let us have kids.
Am I the only one who thinks we need a reality check here? Yes, I love husband-dear. I do. Even when he's at his orniest. Even when he leaves his dirty socks all over the bathroom floor. Even when he's not there or on some wonky shift, I love the dude. Really, I do. But does that mean I should rely on him for all of my personal happiness? Be both subservient and codependent? I asked husband-dear what he thought of that later that night, and he politely but firmly asked me to please stay just the way I am, because that was whom he loved. And he was nice enough to note that this town does, indeed, have few redeeming features. Which raises another interesting question: If my husband and I agree that living here isn't the bomb, then doesn't proper southern culture require that I echo his opinion, regardless of how negative it is? So then doesn't that mean that last Monday I was actually being the perfect southern lady?
It's just a thought....
Just in case you wondered, I am not even close to becoming a southern belle. Although I've become an expert at hiding critiques inside compliments, and making every statement sound like a question, I still fail to meet several main criteria:
1. I don't bake or cook, and even worse, I let my husband do most of the food preparation;
2. I work, and not only that, but I have an actual career that I, oh my stars, like;
3. I don't sew, quilt, or do any form of needlepoint, and ask my husband to sew on buttons for me;
4. I am currently not enrolled in a bible study class, which really just says it all, and;
5. I don't have any kids, and what's worse, I can't have any either, which means there is no point talking to me about baby gear, toddler issues, or pre-school selection procedures. And no, stepkids don't count, which is mainly because in the world of the southern belle there is no such thing as divorce. And when it does happen, said woman will move away, thus sparing herself and her friends the embarrassment of dealing with a divorcee, or even worse, a second marriage.
This is of course neglecting several other of my characteristics, such as my painful honesty, my tendency towards liberal political opinions, and my refusal to wear make up 24/7/365.
In short, I have not yet been embraced by the tight knit circle of southern belles that make up my home town. And usually, I'm really OK with that. In fact, half the time I don't even notice I'm missing something, simply because I'm obtuse. And busy. Or both.
Anyway, every once in a while, something will happen that will make (painfully) aware of the fact that no, I have not blended into this southern culture, and yes, it really is that bad. And this past Monday was one of those moments. On Monday, I had been invited to an afternoon of games at a friend's house (and by the way, help me out here - is that a southern thing? To be invited to an afternoon of games when you're an adult? You see, I'm so confused about what's what that I really have no idea if my non-southern readers do things like that too). Somehow, the conversation shifted to my commute, and if I didn't get tired of it. As I was around friends, I had forgotten to turn on my "southern filter", and responded, "Yes, it's gotten really old. I can't wait until we move and I can get away from this horrible town."
Most of my non-southern-belle friends nodded in understanding, but an older lady sitting next to me responded, "What? You don't like it here?"
Really people, if three years and six months in the south should have taught me something, it should have been that when someone questions your opinion, they are really offended, and you need to tone it down. Apparently, that hasn't clicked with me yet, because I said, "Oh no, I can't stand it here."
The older lady frowned and said, "Well, I think that's being very ungrateful. You should be happy to be able to be wherever your husband is living."
Yes, because obviously my personal happiness is entirely tied to my husband. Obviously. And if it's not, that means I must not truly love my husband, which, in turn, makes me a very, very bad wife.
Am I the only one who thinks we need a reality check here? Yes, I love husband-dear. I do. Even when he's at his orniest. Even when he leaves his dirty socks all over the bathroom floor. Even when he's not there or on some wonky shift, I love the dude. Really, I do. But does that mean I should rely on him for all of my personal happiness? Be both subservient and codependent? I asked husband-dear what he thought of that later that night, and he politely but firmly asked me to please stay just the way I am, because that was whom he loved. And he was nice enough to note that this town does, indeed, have few redeeming features. Which raises another interesting question: If my husband and I agree that living here isn't the bomb, then doesn't proper southern culture require that I echo his opinion, regardless of how negative it is? So then doesn't that mean that last Monday I was actually being the perfect southern lady?
It's just a thought....
Saturday, January 15, 2011
I really shouldn't be doing this...
...you know, run 13.1 miles.
After all, I'd trained for a half marathon once before, two years ago, with disastrous results. I think my left ITB refused to speak to me for months after that. Then, of course, I decided to break my toe, and that was enough to put me off long-distance running for a good year.
Instead, I decided to throw myself into triathlons and adventure racing, where any running is limited to at most 6 miles, which is, when compared to a half marathon, a positively breeze of a run. More importantly, these runs are always conveniently scheduled out after your body has received an invigorating work out in the shape of swimming, biking, canoeing, building tipis, shooting a bow and arrow, or navigating through an obstacle course. And, in my case, a warmed up body equals an injury free body (and before you all go stating the obvious, no, I will not ride my bike twenty miles before a half marathon training just so I don't get hurt. Because that's just really insane).
But for those of you who know me (and if you've read three of my posts on my blog, you pretty much do), you know that I can't just let something as monumental as a half marathon go. In some respects, I'm really very much like a terrier, or, if you're feeling a little snippy today, a pit-bull, as once I get a hold of something, I have hard time letting go. Honestly, the only reason I have a PhD is not because I'm that smart (I'm not), or have these great original ideas (I don't), but just because I don't know how to quit.
So last October, I secretly started training for the same half marathon I was training for two years ago. And of course, once I hit the nine mile mark, my body started to show signs it was less than thrilled with this long-distance running. Fortunately, this time, I had a plan: A more flexible training schedule. And ice baths. Lots and lots of ice baths. Oh yes, and let's not forget the rolling pin. Had you stopped by our house on any regular night in the past two months, you might have had the opportunity to behold the interesting tableau of me squirming on the living room floor, while husband-dear rolled a rolling pin down my lower body, asking me if this was "Hard enough".
I'll admit, there's a slight possibility that my desire to finish this half marathon might have gotten a little out of hand. Just a little.
And although I ended up running with not one, but two ITB straps, and had to take two ibuprofen while racing, I did it. Finally. I ran 13.1 miles, beat my goal of finishing in 1:57 by four minutes, and am now the proud owner of a real half marathon medal. And two very unhappy knees.
So. Was it all worth it? Of course! (and, just so you know, cognitive dissonance is preventing me from saying anything else). Will I ever run a marathon? I don't think so. But hey, with me, hope springs eternal.
Now you have to excuse me as I need to go look for that rolling pin again.
After all, I'd trained for a half marathon once before, two years ago, with disastrous results. I think my left ITB refused to speak to me for months after that. Then, of course, I decided to break my toe, and that was enough to put me off long-distance running for a good year.
Instead, I decided to throw myself into triathlons and adventure racing, where any running is limited to at most 6 miles, which is, when compared to a half marathon, a positively breeze of a run. More importantly, these runs are always conveniently scheduled out after your body has received an invigorating work out in the shape of swimming, biking, canoeing, building tipis, shooting a bow and arrow, or navigating through an obstacle course. And, in my case, a warmed up body equals an injury free body (and before you all go stating the obvious, no, I will not ride my bike twenty miles before a half marathon training just so I don't get hurt. Because that's just really insane).
But for those of you who know me (and if you've read three of my posts on my blog, you pretty much do), you know that I can't just let something as monumental as a half marathon go. In some respects, I'm really very much like a terrier, or, if you're feeling a little snippy today, a pit-bull, as once I get a hold of something, I have hard time letting go. Honestly, the only reason I have a PhD is not because I'm that smart (I'm not), or have these great original ideas (I don't), but just because I don't know how to quit.
So last October, I secretly started training for the same half marathon I was training for two years ago. And of course, once I hit the nine mile mark, my body started to show signs it was less than thrilled with this long-distance running. Fortunately, this time, I had a plan: A more flexible training schedule. And ice baths. Lots and lots of ice baths. Oh yes, and let's not forget the rolling pin. Had you stopped by our house on any regular night in the past two months, you might have had the opportunity to behold the interesting tableau of me squirming on the living room floor, while husband-dear rolled a rolling pin down my lower body, asking me if this was "Hard enough".
I'll admit, there's a slight possibility that my desire to finish this half marathon might have gotten a little out of hand. Just a little.
And although I ended up running with not one, but two ITB straps, and had to take two ibuprofen while racing, I did it. Finally. I ran 13.1 miles, beat my goal of finishing in 1:57 by four minutes, and am now the proud owner of a real half marathon medal. And two very unhappy knees.
So. Was it all worth it? Of course! (and, just so you know, cognitive dissonance is preventing me from saying anything else). Will I ever run a marathon? I don't think so. But hey, with me, hope springs eternal.
Now you have to excuse me as I need to go look for that rolling pin again.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
De beamer
Wist u dat wat we in Nederlander een "beamer" noemen, in Amerika gewoon een "projector" genoemd wordt? Als je het hier over een "beamer" praat, dan zal men eerder aan een bepaald Duits automerk denken ("beemer") dan een camera om beeld mee te projecteren. Het blijft een raar verschijnsel. Net zoals "crate" versus "bench". Maar goed, ik wilde het juist vandaag alleen over die beamer hebben. Projector. Dat ding dus.
Hier kwam ik op omdat ik vanaag namelijk in een ander gebouw op de campus les moest geven. En als ik, en andere docenten met mij, ergens een hekel aan heb (naast zeurende studenten en finals natuurlijk), dan is het aan lesgeven in een ander gebouw.
Allereerst is daar het feit dat je naar buiten moet. Naar buiten?! In een land waar de meeste kantoorgebouwen geen enkel raam hebben dat open kan, is het hele concept van naar buiten lopen nou niet echt gewoon. En niet alleen moet je naar buiten, je moet ook nog eens een flink eind naar buiten, want volgens goed Amerikaans gebruik, is ook deze campus zeer ruim opgezet. En dus is "even naar dit of dat gebouw" al snel een wandelingetje van zo'n tien minuten. Op zich niks mis mee, natuurlijk. Een frisse neus op zijn tijd kan heel lekker zijn, vooral als je net de hele dag in een bijna vaccum-sealed gebouw zit. Maar goed, dan heb je ook nog eens hakken aan. Want ja, je werk heeft een dresscode. En tien minuten op hakken lopen is nou niet echt even een lekkere wandeling.
Maar het allerergste? Dat je nooit wat voor een klaslokalen je in dat andere gebouw aantreft. Hier in mijn gebouw zijn wij namelijk enorm verwend. We hebben productie lokalen compleet voor radio and televisie productie colleges compleet met mixing boards, cameras, sets, en editing suites, en volledige uitgeruste lecture halls met wireless internet, een podium met ingebouwde mac, en uiteraard een ingebouwde projector. Sorry, beamer. Het enige wat je hoeft te doen is je laptop aansluiten, en voila. Klaar is Kees. Klara.
Maar helaas weet je in een ander gebouw nooit wat te verwachten. Zo heeft het English department een serie klaslokalen die rechtstreeks uit de jaren vijftig lijken te komen, compleet met krijt bord en houten stoeltjes en tafeltjes. Bij de sciences weet je al helemaal nooit zeker of je niet per ongeluk in een lab vol met branders of opgezette dieren onderdelen terecht komt, en over de verpleegkunde lokalen zal ik het maar helemaal niet hebben. Gelukkig heb ik in de drie-en-een-half jaar dat ik hier nu werk altijd les gegeven in ons gebouw.
Tot vanochtend dus. Toen moest ik in een keer naar een naburig gebouw. En wat dat allemaal inhield...een expeditie naar de noordpool is er niks bij. Jas aan, sjaal om, handschoenen aan, multomap onder de ene arm, boeken en syllabus onder de andere. Handtas over een schouder, laptop tas er boven op, projector in tas over andere schouder, en tas met verlengsnoeren en speakers aan een pink gehangen. En geen enkele deur had zo'n handige knop voor mensen in rolstoelen.
Nadat het college voorbij was, kon de expeditie weer in omgekeerde richting vertrekken. En zo kwam ik tein minuten later met uitgehangen armen en een verwaaid kapsel weer terug in mijn kantoor. En stuurde meteen een mailtje naar de mevrouw van de "room assignments". En kreeg ook nog eens meteen antwoord. Vanaf volgende week hoef ik alleen nog maar de trap af. Met mijn laptop. Niks geen beamer. Projector. Whatever.
En zo kwam ik erop dat we in Nederland eigenlijk maar hele rare woorden gebruiken. Beamer. Tss..
Hier kwam ik op omdat ik vanaag namelijk in een ander gebouw op de campus les moest geven. En als ik, en andere docenten met mij, ergens een hekel aan heb (naast zeurende studenten en finals natuurlijk), dan is het aan lesgeven in een ander gebouw.
Allereerst is daar het feit dat je naar buiten moet. Naar buiten?! In een land waar de meeste kantoorgebouwen geen enkel raam hebben dat open kan, is het hele concept van naar buiten lopen nou niet echt gewoon. En niet alleen moet je naar buiten, je moet ook nog eens een flink eind naar buiten, want volgens goed Amerikaans gebruik, is ook deze campus zeer ruim opgezet. En dus is "even naar dit of dat gebouw" al snel een wandelingetje van zo'n tien minuten. Op zich niks mis mee, natuurlijk. Een frisse neus op zijn tijd kan heel lekker zijn, vooral als je net de hele dag in een bijna vaccum-sealed gebouw zit. Maar goed, dan heb je ook nog eens hakken aan. Want ja, je werk heeft een dresscode. En tien minuten op hakken lopen is nou niet echt even een lekkere wandeling.
Maar het allerergste? Dat je nooit wat voor een klaslokalen je in dat andere gebouw aantreft. Hier in mijn gebouw zijn wij namelijk enorm verwend. We hebben productie lokalen compleet voor radio and televisie productie colleges compleet met mixing boards, cameras, sets, en editing suites, en volledige uitgeruste lecture halls met wireless internet, een podium met ingebouwde mac, en uiteraard een ingebouwde projector. Sorry, beamer. Het enige wat je hoeft te doen is je laptop aansluiten, en voila. Klaar is Kees. Klara.
Maar helaas weet je in een ander gebouw nooit wat te verwachten. Zo heeft het English department een serie klaslokalen die rechtstreeks uit de jaren vijftig lijken te komen, compleet met krijt bord en houten stoeltjes en tafeltjes. Bij de sciences weet je al helemaal nooit zeker of je niet per ongeluk in een lab vol met branders of opgezette dieren onderdelen terecht komt, en over de verpleegkunde lokalen zal ik het maar helemaal niet hebben. Gelukkig heb ik in de drie-en-een-half jaar dat ik hier nu werk altijd les gegeven in ons gebouw.
Tot vanochtend dus. Toen moest ik in een keer naar een naburig gebouw. En wat dat allemaal inhield...een expeditie naar de noordpool is er niks bij. Jas aan, sjaal om, handschoenen aan, multomap onder de ene arm, boeken en syllabus onder de andere. Handtas over een schouder, laptop tas er boven op, projector in tas over andere schouder, en tas met verlengsnoeren en speakers aan een pink gehangen. En geen enkele deur had zo'n handige knop voor mensen in rolstoelen.
Nadat het college voorbij was, kon de expeditie weer in omgekeerde richting vertrekken. En zo kwam ik tein minuten later met uitgehangen armen en een verwaaid kapsel weer terug in mijn kantoor. En stuurde meteen een mailtje naar de mevrouw van de "room assignments". En kreeg ook nog eens meteen antwoord. Vanaf volgende week hoef ik alleen nog maar de trap af. Met mijn laptop. Niks geen beamer. Projector. Whatever.
En zo kwam ik erop dat we in Nederland eigenlijk maar hele rare woorden gebruiken. Beamer. Tss..
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)